


stay a moment or two

by renquise



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Cultural Differences, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, by which I mean, ~~scandalous hand touching~~
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 23:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renquise/pseuds/renquise
Summary: There’s a calculated abandon to the way that Widogast comports himself with him. A deliberate vulnerability, an offering of his skills and his person to receive something in return.





	stay a moment or two

“You seem to have settled in all right.” 

It seems like every week that Essek passes by the manor—or, well, the Xhorhouse, as the hand-painted sign on the door now proclaims—there’s been at least three new modifications to the house. The newest addition appears to be a not-so-secret revolving door, which appears to have no purpose except being “pret-ty cool,” as Miss Jester had put it. It’s impressive, seeing how fast they’ve settled into the space and adapted to their new environment. Or, well. Adapted their new environment to themselves.

The library that Widogast leads him to is already a settled-in kind of messy, papers and books scattered over a table, the chemist's equipment in the room comfortably sharing the space. 

"Ah, yes. It's a shame that Nott had things to do, or she could have shown you what she and her husband were working on—she's very smart, and talented in the arcane, too," Caleb says, stacking his books and setting them aside.

Essek raises his eyebrows. Good to know. He knows that this group has a motley assortment of skills—their two clerics' work is proof enough of that—but it seems as though they are constantly bringing more surprising talents to bear. 

Speaking of—

“While we were chatting, your compatriot, Beauregard, she said that you have some time magic yourself? I would hate to think that my tutelage is redundant.”

(She mentioned it while greeting him in the foyer with combative courtesy, and Essek almost missed it in the now-familiar chaos of multiple other unusual things happening, including someone yelling for Caleb to light the sauna. Apparently they had upgraded the hot tub.

“Yeah, he does this thing where he just like—” Beauregard clapped her hands and pushed them outwards, endangering the cocktail she held in one hand. “Makes me really fucking fast for a little bit? I’m pretty sure it’s different from the time stuff you do, but ask him about it. It’s cool. Dude is really bad at punching, but he’s pretty good at helping me punch better.”

As Widogast accompanied him away from the foyer, Essek could vaguely hear her calling for a “Hospitality chest-bump, Fjord! Fuck yeah, encouraging shared interests, we’re killing this. Next time we’ll ask Caduceus for hors d’oeuvres all up in this joint.”)

Widogast shrugs. “Of a sort? It is, ah, it is not what you do. It is not influencing time and fate itself, but the way that the flesh and the mind perceive time, perhaps. I can slow the body’s processes, make the mind fire more slowly.”

Empire magic, this, but strangely akin to his own. Interesting and impressive in its own way, despite Widogast downplaying its effects.

“So, not the fabric of time itself, but the way that it is translated in the mind and the body.”

“Yes, yes, precisely,” Widogast says. He looks up to Essek, his gaze intense. “That is why—what you do, I find it fascinating.”

Essek hopes that he has been around court long enough to be able to distinguish that yes, it’s flattery. But flattery of a very sincere sort, a genuine interest in their system of magic.

It’s almost reassuring, to know that they are playing the same game, at least for now. Essek gains to learn more about this foreign magic and its applications for the sake of the dynasty, and Widogast clearly hungers to learn more about dunamancy for his own purposes. And if they both happen to sate their own curiosity in the process, what harm can come of it?

“I could demonstrate—” Widogast extends his hand toward him, then seems to think better of it, a sheepish smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “No, that would be a clear breach of security on your part. My apologies.” 

Essek shrugs. “I flatter myself to think that I would be able to handle it, but I appreciate your caution.” 

He’s fairly certain that he managed to keep his mild disappointment from seeping into his tone. It would be foolish to let himself be exposed to a spell without being fully familiar with it. But he would be lying to say that he isn’t curious about the experience. Widogast raises his eyebrows at him. Perhaps it wasn’t terribly successful.

“I can, ah, can demonstrate it on myself, if you wish?” Widogast shrugs. 

Essek gestures encouragingly. 

Widogast reaches into his pockets, clearly showing the movement so as not to startle. Essek appreciates the consideration. For all that Widogast seems to have found himself a new set of clothing, there are still odd lumps that interfere with the line of the coat, hinting at spell components scattered over his person. It would be usually be tasteless to show the tools of your trade so openly, to imply how potentially dangerous you could be. On Widogast, though, it comes off as charmingly unconcerned about appearances, part and parcel of his foreign strangeness.

There is the sharp, dark smell of molasses as Widogast shows him his bare fingers tipped in black. He traces a glyph in the air with a muttering of words that Essek will have to ask him to repeat later, and slaps his hand on his own chest.

At once, it’s as though his figure is caught in aspic. His hand drops back to his side with an exaggerated slowness. Even his breathing is visibly sluggish, his chest rising and dropping at an unnaturally placid rate. 

Essek has seen this on the battlefield before, soldiers panicking at their comrades caught in a deadly languor, unable to react as they are cut down. It’s another thing to see it up close, to directly observe the spell’s effects on the body. 

It’s a risky thing for Widogast to put himself at such a disadvantage. If it’s a show of trust, it’s a daring one. 

Essek shrugs his cloak back and raises a hand, trying to show the movement clearly. Widogast’s eyes track the movement, trailing a beat behind, his quick mind slowed.

“May I touch you? I am curious to see how you perceive it. You do not have to, of course. I would not want to presume.” 

Curiosity about the magic on his part, yes, but also a feint: would Widogast allow him close in this state? Essek wouldn't blame him if he said no. He's not sure he would be daring enough to allow it, if it were him.

Barely a breath, and Widogast blinks slowly and nods.

The man is surprising and yet consistent in his behaviour. There’s a calculated abandon to the way that Widogast comports himself with him. A deliberate vulnerability, an offering of his skills and his person to receive something in return. An exchange of favours. 

Essek reaches for Widogast’s shoulder, moving slowly enough for Widogast to step out of the way, if need be. But instead, Widogast raises his hand as though moving through water, offering its bare skin. 

Essek feels his ears go hot and almost jerks his own hand back into his cloak. This has all the makings of a terrible cultural misunderstanding and an awkward, awkward conversation. 

Essek hasn’t the time for courting, not with a war on their doorstep, but he’s fairly certain that even young people these days would not dare to touch hands until they were very certain of their suit. Some of his older den relatives with truly old-fashioned customs still wore gloves to all public events and frowned at his audacity to bear bare hands with his formal robes. For all his deliberate charm, Essek is certain that Widogast does not know how very, very forward this is. 

No matter. If the man offers the touch so easily, it must not have so great an importance for his people. 

He draws his fingers over the back of Widogast’s hand, keeping his touch light and impersonal. Definitely does not think of his great-aunt aghast at young people touching hands before marriage, which does an admirable job of suppressing any thrill.

The man has interesting hands. It’s tempting to linger over the raised scars and the flexible veins on the backs of his hands, so strangely visible through his pale skin, the blunt, coal-dark tips of his fingers. But he would not take advantage of the man’s unfamiliarity with their customs for the sake of his own curiosity.

“How do you perceive it?” 

Widogast opens his mouth, the words slowly struggling from his throat. “Fast. Very, light?” He frowns and offers his hand again, flipping it over. “Do it—again. Slower.”

Essek swallows. He raises his hand again. Places two fingertips on the inside of Widogast’s wrist and draws them over the tendon. Widogast’s fingers slowly curl by reflex as Essek's touch crosses the hollow of his palm.

Essek can’t help but think of the formal costume coding of old plays, all those most basic of visual cliches that creche children use for performances: the Foreign Human recognizable by his hands and arms bare to the elbow, an easy shorthand for the pity of a short, unconsecuted life. Widogast's pale skin bears the marks of many experiences, despite his short years, but it doesn't evoke pity, not at all—only more curiosity. 

Essek sees the moment the spell wanes. Widogast slumps forward as if finishing a movement, his slow, even breathing yielding to a gasp. Essek catches him under the elbow, steadying him as he gathers himself.

Essek steps back from him, clearing his throat and tucking his arms back under his cloak. Focus. Shop talk, not reenactments of amateur dramatics.

“That is, ah, very interesting. To you, I was moving fast?” And now an unfortunate choice of words, well done, Shadowhand.

Widogast nods, apparently unaware or unconcerned with any awkward cultural misunderstanding might have occured. Thank the light. “Yes, I had the perception that you were moving very fast. It makes sense, of course. If you wished to, ah, to do the opposite, to make someone experience a moment as a longer span of time, then hasting them is more appropriate. Then the mind is moving faster, yes?”

The battle applications of that are evident. Given the vague impressions that Widogast has given of his training, Essek wonders if the interrogation applications are equally so.

“But the memory of that span of time—the retrospective vantage, rather than the prospective vantage during the moment—that is different. You were moving fast in the moment, but I now remember it as a longer span of time.” Widogast gestures widely, the words tumbling out one over the other. “The, ah, memories created during that span—this is a new experience to me, yes? And I have a pretty good memory. That all changes the retrospective perception of that time span. But yes, this is all small beans compared to the actual manipulation of time itself, the things you are doing.” 

Widogast’s eyes are bright with excitement. Essek might have to reflect on the fact that he is simultaneously succeeding at his job beyond all expectations and failing very, very badly. 

He clears his throat. “And, and if you were to cast your senses in your familiar while affected by this spell—might the separation of your senses influence your perception?”

Widogast raises his eyebrows, before looking down, looking thoughtful. “That, I think, is a whole other can of worms. I am not certain.” He pauses, thoughtful, his pale eyelashes casting against his cheeks. “We can certainly try. And if you were to apply a dunamantic spell at the same time, well, I have no idea.”

Essek laughs. “That is a blatant attempt at getting another look at my spellbook under the guise of experimentation, Mr. Widogast.”

Widogast raises his hands. They are still very good hands. “Guilty as charged.” He turns back to his books. “Shall we?”

“After you.”

Essek rubs his fingers together under his cloak. There’s a faint tackiness to his fingertips. When Essek touches his fingers to his lips, he tastes the deep, sharp sweetness of molasses.


End file.
